


bread and wine

by serenfire



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 1920's Fashion, 1920's Music, 1920's Politics, Credence is infatuated with jazz music, Established Relationship, History - Freeform, Jazz Age, M/M, Newt takes Credence on a date to a gay bar, a hopeful imagination of lgbt culture in the 20s? in MY fic?, it's more common than you think, the Harlem Renaissance, they're both so pure, using my knowledge of jazz for good and not evil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-12 08:25:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9064099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenfire/pseuds/serenfire
Summary: Credence stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the bathroom of the hotel Newt is staying in, the hotel that has become Credence’s place of lodging and, if he were to venture to put a word to a concept he had never known before, home.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlapDashDrivel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlapDashDrivel/gifts).



> Title from [Bread and Wine by Gerry Mulligan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=puUeyUAX3Is), a great song with an even greater bari sax solo. Everyone should listen to it and appreciate my favorite instrument in the world (except, of course, the wonderful clarinet). For more amazing jazz featuring my instrument of choice, listen to [Moanin' by Charles Mingus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=__OSyznVDOY).
> 
> This work was inspired by my love for jazz and my research into '20s fashion and the aesthetic of New York in winter. Hope you enjoy!

Credence adjusts the bow tie around his neck, smoothing out the white vest Newt had given him. His hands flutter nervously around the tuxedo jacket, new and ironed with a scent of jasmine inlaid in the fabric. Credence stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the bathroom of the hotel Newt is staying in, the hotel that has become Credence’s place of lodging and, if he were to venture to put a word to a concept he had never known before, home.

The ornate door of the hotel opens, and Newt pops in. He’s just as scruffy as ever, his fiery hair untamed and still wearing only a bathrobe. Newt grins slyly at him, and Credence looks away. It’s uncomfortable to be looked at, to be preened at, wearing clothes Newt had given him especially for this occasion, and with no idea where Newt is taking him tonight, Credence may as well be a trophy on Newt’s arm.

“Do you like the suit?” Newt asks.

Credence glances back at himself in the mirror. His white bow tie is askew and even the shirt is made of silk, finer than the makeshift patched suits he wore when passing out flyers in his youth. Even though Newt had never asked him to go to a tailor, not a single stitch is too tight, and Credence knows that he must make a far more attractive sight than when Newt first met him, wearing rags compared to this.

Warm arms encircle his waist, and Credence can see Newt’s head resting on his shoulder in the mirror. “You’ll wrinkle it,” Credence protests, but Newt only holds him tighter.

“If you don’t feel comfortable in it, you don’t have to wear it,” Newt says. “It’s only one option. We have time, if you’d rather just wear a turtleneck and be done with societal fashion.”

Credence’s tongue is thick in his mouth. “No, I--I want to wear what you like. I do. But I’m just not--” He’s not the kind of person who deserves to wear a crisp evening suit, like the businessmen who ignored the flyers he handed out on the street.

“It fits you like a second skin,” Newt tells him, “if that makes you any more amenable to it. But if you don’t like it, then be assured that where we’re going no one cares what you wear.”

“And where are we going, exactly?” Credence asks.

Newt presses a kiss to his cheek. “You’ll find out when we get there.”

“Such a tease,” Credence complains and returns the kiss. “But if we want to get there by a reasonable hour, you’re going to need to get out of that and dressed in your own fancy suit.”

Newt shrugs his proffered bathrobe off, and now there’s nothing separating his skin from Credence’s newly ironed suit, that might become newly crumpled if Newt has his way. “Why, I thought you said an hour ago you preferred me like this. Mister Barebone, do you lie?”

“Mister Scamander, I assure you I do not,” Credence says, assuming the posh accent Newt mimics. “But I’m not sure the people wherever we’re going would appreciate you as much as I do in your birthday suit.”

Newt sneaks one more kiss in, nipping Credence’s unruly hair in his haste, and says, “I’ll be right back.”

Credence attempts to straighten out his shirt, vest, and jacket to little avail. He looks at the sleek gloves just staring at him from their perch on the marble counter, the ones that would transform him from a boy playing at being fashionable to a connoisseur of the rich arts. He slips them on, marveling at how they feel against his scarred hands. The gloves look to trap him in his material form, guarding against any urge to release his body and gather all the rage in a five-mile block. He wonders if Newt charmed the gloves for this purpose.

Newt walks back in the bathroom. “Am I adequately dressed enough for you now?”

Credence turns and his breath leaves him at once. Newt is wearing an identical copy of the tuxedo he gave him with one change: he wears a glaring red bow tie around his neck. Everything else fits him snugly, the brass buttons on his vest gleaming in the light, his hair slicked down as much as possible, a pocket watch chain from his breast pocket to his waist.

Credence reaches out and touches the red bow tie, afraid for Newt. “Won’t people know you’re--know that we are--”

Newt encircles Credence’s hands and says, “That’s the point.”

“But it will be--” _a disgrace_ , he wants to say. _We will be kicked out of wherever you want to go for flaunting our relationship._

“Don’t worry,” Newt says. “When we arrive to our destination, count the red ties, handkerchiefs, scarves, and other accessories. Trust me; where we’re going, no one is trying to hide.”

Credence doesn’t know of a single place where they wouldn’t be attacked if Newt wore such a shining reminder of his status on his person. Even MACUSA at the Woolworth building, though that would be mainly because Credence is still unofficially on the run. Some employees hold grudges.

“Do you trust me?” Newt asks, his own gloved hands on Credence’s shoulders.

Credence nods. “Undoubtedly.”

“Then let’s get going on our date.”

Outside, Manhattan is quiet after dusk, snow falling to the ground and crunched underfoot, horses pulling carriages trotting along at a respectable pace, well-dressed starlets and flappers in sparkling evening gowns walking towards the hotel Credence and Newt exit together, arms intertwined. One of the group of performers even smiles at them, and Credence manages to return it.

“See?” Newt says as they walk over the cobblestones lit by electric lamps, turning on Fourth Avenue. “There’s more of us here than you think.”

Credence nods, but he has memories of alleyways just like the ones they walk past, being beaten by boys older than him just because they assumed he’s one of them, before even he knew it to be true.

Newt presses something into Credence’s hand, and he looks down to see Newt’s wand, at the coral inlay that keeps his wand core functioning after it was snapped, as Newt had explained it several times. “To protect yourself,” Newt whispers. “In case you think anything might happen. It’s just another block.”

Credence is immensely thankful, curling his gloved fingers around the wand and feeling the unruly, explosive magic within him calm at the presence of an outlet, of a channel, just in case anything happens.

And without knowing it, they arrive.

Newt guides Credence’s hand to tap the wand against a layer of bricks and the cement melts away, revealing a cast iron door that’s cracked open and inviting all who see it inside. Credence can feel the pull almost like an electromagnet to the thrum and the hubbub inside, and his soul wants to curl around the roots of the building and settle--for the first time without a scent of rage in the air. Just the pull of a magic he’s never encountered before.

“Do you feel that?” Credence whispers as Newt pushes the door the rest of the way open, leading him inside and down a dark corridor, the light of the alley dimming until they have to feel their way down the hall by way of a velvet rope, thick and plush and attached to a gilded handle of a bright bronze door that gleams as they push it open into the lit ballroom within.

“It’s untouched magic,” Newt smiles. “This caters to no-majs, but the people who first stepped foot in here were like us.”

As they enter the ballroom, the stiffness of Credence’s vest and the starch in his gloves goes away--or, it might still be just as new and ironed and uncomfortable, but it doesn’t matter any longer. He’s captivated by the sight.

The ballroom is longer than the Woolworth main hall, but thinner, and adorned on the high walls are red velvet curtains and gold cord, with electric chandeliers nestled in the ceiling. The people in the ballroom are congregated on the main floor, dancing in partners. Credence spots all colors of dresses and suits, and all colors of people, too--all shuffling as one, smiling, their voices a murmur to the song booming across the room.

Credence looks to see where the music is coming from, where the lilting melody so unlike any hymns he’s heard before is being produced. On the other end of the room is a raised stage, and three people stand, eyes closed, without music, one holding a polished brass instrument, one with an upright string instrument, and one on percussion, keeping the beat. Their music flows over the whole room, and the rhythm seems to keep the participants moving in conjunction with one another, as they twirl to the improvisation.

“What is that?” he breathes, Newt still on his arm, guiding him towards the bar in the corner where a woman, who looks human only if Credence doesn’t stare at her directly, wipes the counter.

“Well, they’re like us,” Newt explains gently, looking towards the participants, and Credence tears his gaze from the captivating band and towards the dancers. He doesn’t know what ‘like us’ means until he sees them in the new light--women dancing with women and men dancing with men, all tenderly embracing each other as lovers.

Credence swallows. Oh.

“What can I get you gentlemen?” the woman at the bar asks, grinning at Credence like they’re in on a secret. When Credence focuses on her, he can see the flimsiness of the glamor cast, the ways in which her ears and lips and nose shimmer and change in the shadows, like she’s a beacon for magical folk to know that they are in good company here.

“Ginger ale, please,” Newt says.

She winks at him. “With or without the good stuff?”

Credence swallows again. She must mean alcohol, and of course an illegal slightly magical ball hidden in the heart of Manhattan is a speakeasy. His mother warned him of such things growing up, and even though it’s been almost a year since her death, the first thing that passes through his heart is a cold shock.

“Without, thank you.”

The bartender nods and takes out a glass, cut so it reflects the chandelier light, and pours the light brown liquid into it. “And you, hon?” she nods to Credence.

Beneath the counter, Newt grasps Credence’s hand tightly, as if to instill confidence. Credence looks at all the unfamiliar bottles showcased behind her, each and every one banned from the United States. He doesn’t want to break the law any more than he already has, and the one time he tried ginger ale on Newt’s birthday he spit it out immediately.

The bartender rests her hand on Credence’s free one. Her nails are as sharp as claws and manicured. “Maybe just a club soda,” she suggests, and Credence nods in relief.

The bartender hunts for the soda bottle and Newt rests his back against the counter, gesturing towards the dancers. “I thought you might want to go somewhere where you have no fear of being judged for any part of you,” he says.

Credence is so grateful. “The band,” he says suddenly, “--their instruments?”

Newt looks back to where the man with the metallic instrument is playing by himself, a lilting melody straight from his heart that sounds like a flute on a cloud. “Jazz,” he says. “It’s the best music America has to offer. All that free spirit and innovation--did you know that since the birth of jazz here, it’s been outlawed in Germany?” He whispers, “They say the new Reich isn’t too fond of freedom.”

“But what is it?” Credence asks, transfixed.

“It’s so many things. It’s a mash of bluegrass from the fields and soul from the churches, it’s the next step from big bands, it’s the evolution of sound. Loosely structured, pleasing to the ears. Created and performed by African-Americans, a way to prove to the ignorant masses that they are just as human as we are.”

Credence grins. “I like it.”

“I’m glad,” Newt says, squeezing his hand again. Credence leans into the touch, so that Newt’s head is almost resting on his shoulder, and they watch the couples shuffle their hips and nod their heads to the final crescendo of the solo until the frontman onstage nods and the song ends. The entire ballroom uproars into a clapping spree, everyone beaming in the light, serenading the band, and the jazz combo launches into another piece, this time dictated by the string instrument thumping out the bass line.

The bartender returns with Credence’s drink, and he savors the bitter flavor of the carbonated water against his tongue, still leaning against Newt. He can’t believe that everyone here--the participants, the staff too--are just like him, their attractions not something to be hushed but something to be celebrated and danced to.

Two women break off from the group, one in a frilly peach ballgown that was in style almost half a century ago, with curled hair to match, pinned to her head, and the other in flapper dress and hair, both chattering about the opera as they order pina coladas.

Credence watches them silently, out of sheer curiosity--isolated for his entire life, since he moved in with Newt the only outside people he’s had contact with are the Goldstein sisters and Kowalski. These women are different--both of them dark enough to warrant harassment if they walked in the streets of New York during daylight, and one of them taller than Credence.

The tall one notices Credence after ordering a vodka martini and reaches out her hand for him to shake. “Daisy,” she says, and Credence sees a prominent Adam’s apple on her throat.

“Credence,” he says, shaking her hand with all the grace he can muster.

“And this is your lover,” Daisy states, reaching out to shake Newt’s hand.

“Newt Scamander,” he introduces.

“Oh, British,” she says, a sly look on her face, and her lover also smiles from where she is listening in on the conversation. “How is Europe this time of year?”

“I haven’t been there for a few years, I’m afraid,” Newt apologizes. “I like this scenery far better.” He gestures to Credence, who blushes darker than the velvet curtains lining the walls.

“Aren’t you sweet,” Daisy tells him. “Both of you. I just got back from Siam, though, and let me tell you, it’s nice to have snow for Christmas instead of sun.”

“I’m definitely going to enjoy Hanukkah,” Newt agrees. “Were you in Siam for business?”

“Yes,” Daisy nods. “Internal Affairs.” She winks at him.

Ah. Magical Internal Affairs, then.

Over the loudspeaker, the frontman of the jazz band says, “Ladies and gentlemen, please grab a partner and get ready for some dancing music!”

Daisy reaches out a hand towards Credence. “Credence, would you fancy this dance?”

Newt grins widely at him, and Credence fights through a blush threatening to consume his entire face and murmurs, “Sure.” He’s the most awkward person he knows.

Daisy pulls Credence out onto the dance floor and whispers in his ear, “I know who you are.”

Credence’s heart skips a beat.

“Don’t worry,” Daisy says, and it’s such a marvel to look up at somebody, especially a dame, when Credence only interacts with four people shorter than him on a daily basis. “I’m in an illegal invert speakeasy, as an illegal alcohol-drinking invert myself. And I know something of what it’s like to accidentally destroy things with magic. You’re safe here.”

Credence nods, struck silent. Daisy leads him in slow circles, even as the jazz music in the background plays something at least twice the speed of their movements. But Credence and Daisy just spin in circles on the dance floor. By the bar, Credence can see Newt talking to Daisy’s lover.

“Why did you ask me to dance?” Credence finally asks after he steps on her foot for the third time. “I don’t know how.”

“Great, I can teach you,” Daisy brightens up. “Do you know how to do the Charleston?”

“I...don’t know what that is.”

Daisy grins. “Do you want to learn?”

Twenty minutes later, they stumble back to the bar, Credence holding one shoe in his hand and trying desperately to slick his hair down again. Newt raises his glass at him and takes an obligatory swig.

“Mister Scamander,” Daisy says seriously, despite the ruddiness in her cheeks from the vigorous exercise, “your lover is a natural at dancing, and don’t let anyone tell him otherwise.”

“I don’t plan on it,” Newt says. “Credence, I don’t think I’ve seen anyone pick up dancing as fast as you did.”

Credence looks at the ground and mumbles something to convey his appreciation.

“He’s all yours,” Daisy promises Newt, and she and her partner go back to the dancing floor, leaving Credence to collect his breath and put his shoe back on.

The jazz combo is now playing a percussion solo, cymbals rattling and the bass drum matching the beat of Credence’s heart.

“Was that enjoyable?” Newt asks.

Credence nods. “MACUSA’s Internal Affairs must be a more lively place than previously thought with her around.”

“Russia,” Newt interrupts.

Credence blinks. “What?”

“She doesn’t work for MACUSA. She works for Russia--well, I suppose it’s the Soviet Union now.”

Credence gapes at him. “How do you know?”

Newt smiles, and it’s not vicious or accusative, but just simply pleased. “Her accent is good, but I went to Russia--when it still was Russia--to stop a Kneazle trafficking ring, and I remember the lilt.”

“Then what is she here for?”

Newt shrugs. “Collaboration on the war effort, or scouting the competition. She noticed you and seemed quite pleased; I assume it’s because she realised MACUSA has to be terribly inept to not only pardon a wanted criminal but allow him to live near their headquarters. Which is a good thing, but still correct.”

“Should we...do anything?” Credence asks nervously. On the dance floor, Daisy is as calm and gay as ever, smiling and doing the Charleston with her partner.

“Russia’s an ally,” Newt says. “Besides, this is an illegal speakeasy, full of illegal people, and she just happens to be more illegal than the rest of us. Who knows--she might be here to take down Grindelwald supporters, and she might be the missing link that leads us to win the war.”

Newt suddenly huffs. “I don’t want to spend our date talking politics, unless you do.”

“I do not,” Credence says decisively.

Newt sticks out his arm. “Then, Credence Barebone, may I have this dance?”

Credence smiles indulgently at Newt. “Then, Newton Artemis Fido Scamander, you may.”

***

“Here, come in. Don’t mind the clutter; I’ve been meaning to clean up for a while now.” Tina Goldstein ushers Credence into her office, closing the door behind him with difficulty.

Credence looks around the room in awe and apprehension. Cardboard boxes labelled TOP SECRET are stacked on top of one another in every spare spot of the carpet. Manilla folders from within them, equally stamped, are scattered on Goldstein’s desk, open and with stapled pictures, blurry candids of high profile criminals.

Credence tries to avoid the files, as MACUSA would send him to death row if they knew that a previously wanted criminal has confidential Auror information. However, Goldstein doesn’t seem particularly worried that Credence could expose her entire operation and just shoves some piles of the work on the floor.

“Please, sit,” Goldstein says, and Credence sits on the cushioned chair across from her. His hands fidget despite himself, and he remembers what Newt told him before he came.

“This is just a routine check-up,” Newt had assured him, “to make sure you haven’t been plagued by the obscurus any longer. You’re not in any trouble, and Tina isn’t looking for any faults.”

Now, though, Tina pulls out a sheaf of paper and puts on reading glasses, squinting at the words, and Credence remembers the one time he went to a doctor as a child, when he was seven years old and his head hurt so bad he couldn’t keep any food down. Mary Lou had dragged him, screamed at him the entire visit, and threw away the medicine the doctor gave him afterwards because Credence wouldn’t obey her.

Credence wills away the memory. If he turned into an obscurial now and harmed one of their top agents, MACUSA would kill him. Newt would never speak to him again.

A cool hand is placed on his shaking one, and he looks up to see Goldstein with an understanding look on her face. “Don’t worry,” she says. “All of this information is off the record. All my superiors will know is my abbreviation of the events, and I won’t tell them anything you don’t want me to. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Credence says. “I’ve just never done this before, Miss Goldstein.”

“Please, just call me Tina.”

Credence nods. He can do that.

“Okay,” Tina says, and flips through a folder. When Credence catches a picture of himself, a grainy still of a black mass that must have been the first time he dissolved into the air, he knows that this contains all the information MACUSA has about him.

Tina purses her lips, and Credence fears the worst.

“Let’s start with something small,” Tina says. “How was your week?”

“Newt took me out on a date,” Credence says, and the words bubble from within him, like a dam breaking and the excitement stirring within him exploding outward. It’s like the furthest thing in existence from the obscurus. “We went ballroom dancing.”

“Oh,” Tina grins. “I’ve gone dancing myself a few times, but I prefer sitting and talking myself. What brought this on?”

Credence shrugs. He can feel the silk suit Newt gave him like he’s still wearing it, the tight fabric accentuating his body, the tailored almost-perceptible designs in the suit jacket and the feeling of gloves over his hands, transforming him into someone respectable. “I think he just wanted to show me off,” he says.

Tina snorts to herself, and before Credence can take offense, she says, “No, it’s not you--it’s just that I’m pretty sure that was the reason Newt brought his case of magical creatures to New York in the first place: to show them off to everyone. He’s fond of you, then.”

“Extraordinarily,” Credence nods. He can’t stop grinning, as if his mouth controls the state of his soul, and as he recalls every moment with Newt, his spirits lift.

“What do you like about him?” Tina asks.

Credence doesn’t care that she’s jotting down notes as he speaks, because this is one subject he never wants to stop talking about. “He’s so enthusiastic about everything, and everything he does is truly from the heart--so when he says he cares about me, I know he means it--and his smile, and the way he enjoys introducing me to your world. He was the second person to treat me like a human, after you.”

Tina is nodding along with him as Credence comes back to the real world, sitting in a comfortable chair in a windowless office in the basement of the Woolworth building, surrounded by Aurors and other wizards who all wanted him dead not a month ago.

“Wonderful,” Tina smiles. “What do you enjoy about being a part of ‘our world’, as it were?”

Credence doesn’t have to ponder this question. “Music,” he answers. “When Newt and I went to the ballroom, there was a jazz band playing, and it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen--aside from Newt, of course.” His cheeks turn pink. “But the instruments; I’ve never heard anything like it before. It’s so much better than singing, it’s so ethereal--” He stops, unable to put his amazement into words.

Tina is grinning at him. “You know what, Credence?” she says. “Today is your lucky day, because I have a gramophone.”

“What’s that?”

Tina disappears under her desk amidst the clutter of her work and returns with a large box and a tube sticking out of the end. “And, lucky for you, I too like jazz, so I have some classic records to play.”

She holds up a large disc, an unfamiliar name printed on it, and guides Credence through setting up the needle of the gramophone, cleaning the record, placing it on the machine, winding the crank, and letting it play. The first soft warm notes that the gramophone plays directly bring joy to Credence’s heart. He sits enraptured, ignoring the claustrophobic surroundings and the fact that Tina is still jotting down notes, listening to the melody line, the thrum of the bass, the tap of the drums, his eyes closed, shutting out everything but the music.

When the song finishes, another starts up, and Tina lets Credence sit and nod his head to the music while she returns to her other work, which seems to consist of signing papers. Credence loses time to the gramophone, the trickle of notes straight from a genius’ imagination, nodding and tapping and floating on air.

The record stops playing after an indeterminate amount of time, and Credence opens his eyes.

Tina doesn’t look up from her stack of papers, just says, “You have to turn the record over. Do you want me to show you how?”

“No, I can do it,” Credence insists, and takes the record off the spindle of the turntable, and with the utmost care, turns it over and places the needle in the groove. He winds the crank until it will wind no more, and lets the music play.

When the record has been exhausted, and there is no more smooth and lilting music guiding Credence to calm, he assumes the interview will continue.

However, Tina just ushers him out of the room. “You’ve had enough fun for one session,” she says. “Besides, it’s almost dark outside.”

Credence can’t see the outside, so he takes her word for it.

“Thank you for the experience,” he tells Tina. “The gramophone is a work of art.”

Tina smiles wider than Credence assumes a person can. “Don’t thank me,” she says. “Since I owled Newt with a strong suggestion for a holiday present, thank him instead.”

Credence can’t find the words to respond.

Tina envelops him in a hug. “Just have fun, is all I’m asking.”

“I will,” Credence promises. “I really will.”

 

 

 


End file.
